


so we're falling as we run for cover

by monsterbate



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BJ knows things, Developing Relationship, F/M, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterbate/pseuds/monsterbate
Summary: BJ doesn't really know when he knows: he just realizes it one day while smiling across the Swamp at Hawkeye and the damn thought takes him by surprise so thoroughly that he chokes on his gin and has to deal with Hawkeye's jibes for the next week. But he knows; heknows.(BJ Hunnicutt in love on the other side of the world.)
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, B. J. Hunnicutt/Peg Hunnicutt
Comments: 12
Kudos: 85





	so we're falling as we run for cover

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Broken Bell's [Medicine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9TmigmRYO4).
> 
> Apologies for my strange urge to write soulmark AUs for unlikely fandoms: I am cursed.

BJ doesn't really know when he knows: he just realizes it one day while smiling across the Swamp at Hawkeye and the damn thought takes him by surprise so thoroughly that he chokes on his gin and has to deal with Hawkeye's jibes for the next week. But he knows; he _knows_.

Somehow, he’s not that surprised by the realization. 

Not really.

::

 _Dear Peg_ , BJ writes later.

_Dear Peg, I found 'em. The piece that was missing. I know we talked about this, before, about what would happen when and if but I need to make sure you still—we still are on the same page. Nothing is certain yet but I’m sure, and wanted to write to you the moment I knew._

_And, of course, I still love you to the moon and back. That hasn't changed. You're still mine, my match and my partner and my wife. But Peg—_

_Peg_ , he pleads in blank, black ink, _please say you understand. Please let me know, cause I don’t know what I’d do without him._

He signs it and seals it and sends it, hoping Peg will understand what he can’t come right out and say.

::

Here’s the thing about marks and the military: the Army doesn’t like soldiers to talk about them. Marks cause unprofessional attachments, according to the propaganda. Apparently they inspire insubordination and loyalty to your match rather than your country. So the Army takes careful notes and asks careless questions and does their best to keep similar unmatched marks apart, or assign only soldiers who have met their matches to a unit.

Soulmates have no place among battles and generals and blind obedience; instead, they’re something meant to be protected as part and parcel of the evergreen promise of peace. 

It's a flawed system, but the Army is nothing if not stubborn. 

::

"Hawk," BJ says once right after he’d first arrived, when they're comfortably soused and lethargically confessing to all manner of unArmy things. "What do you think your match will be like? Or have you—?"

Hawkeye rolls over on his cot, robe falling open to reveal his pale legs and drab shorts. "Oh, you know," he replies. "It’ll be someone tall, dark, and handsome who'll sweep me off my feet and take me away from all of this." He adopts a fairly awful _Gone With the Wind_ drawl and throws his hand to his head melodramatically.

"So you haven’t," BJ manages. There's something caught in his throat, some kind of interjection, correction. “Sounds like she’ll be something.”

Hawkeye laughs his faking-it laugh, the one that sounds dry and brittle. “Enough about my hopefully depraved and wicked match—what about yours, oh Golden Boy? Did you see Peg across a crowded street and just _know_ you’d found her, the One You’d Been Waiting For?” He sings the last few words. 

“Oh, it was extremely cliche,” BJ says. He doesn’t say, _But that’s not all_. He doesn’t say, _There’s someone else I’m waiting for_. He doesn’t say, _I’m hoping it’s you_. The words fall apart in his mouth. “Saw Peg and just knew we’d match.”

Hawkeye’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes—he looks like he’s gone somewhere else, somewhere distant and safe and far from where they’re splayed in their tent. “Too wholesome for my tastes,” he says finally. “I need some good old-fashioned leering to convince me.” 

BJ swings to his feet and busies himself pouring another drink. He doesn’t look at Hawkeye; he can’t explain why.

::

Before they’d shipped him out, BJ had seen his military file.

Captain BJ Hunnicutt, US Army. Serial Number: US94539204. Age: 28. Sex: Male. Mark status: matched. Education: Stanford Medical School. 

The thing is: it’s not true. Not entirely.

Yes, two years ago BJ Hunnicutt had met Margaret Hayden on a street corner under the warm Californian sun and asked her out for coffee. He’d made a joke about pie that had her snorting with laughter and if BJ were being honest he’d been falling for her ever since. Two months later they'd confirmed their match and gotten engaged and were well on their way to general bliss before the Army came knocking. 

And he’d gone as ordered and let them examine him and ask him questions about his wife and he’d told them the truth—or most of it. 

The rest of the truth is this: BJ Hunnicutt has two marks and, so far, only one match.

::

BJ doesn’t mean to—he knows marks are private and personal, but it’s Hawkeye. So he keeps looking for it, keeps furtively studying it when Hawk’s not looking. 

He'd noticed, the first time Hawkeye had shed his robe to change, revealing his mark just cresting above the waistband of his shorts. It had been inky black, curled lazily on his hip, bare and obscene in the cold Korean sun.

And BJ had looked at it and thought, _oh, there it is_ , before Hawkeye had caught on to the fact that BJ was staring.

“Like what you see, soldier?” Hawk asked, starting a silly, slinky dance across the tent that had Frank howling and BJ rolling with laughter. It had been easy to laugh off, to dismiss, to never address because obviously it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t even a consideration. 

But the echoing familiarity of it is enough to keep BJ seeking it out, to have him hoping in the broken hours of the morning that it’s Hawkeye, Hawkeye, _Hawkeye_ , like a mantra, like a promise to himself that will outlast the war and Korea and everything else that lies between them.

::

BJ catches Colonel Potter rubbing absently at his shoulder one day in the mess tent. He’s glaring generally in the direction of Igor, which seems to be making the Private a little twitchy. 

“Something eating you?” BJ says, taking a seat at the other end of the table. “Or is it something you’re not eating?” 

Potter starts, hand jerking away from his shoulder, blank expression clearing as he comes back from wherever he’d been. “Oh, Hunnicutt. Didn’t see you there. How’s the chow?”

BJ intentionally doesn’t let himself look at the tray of food in front of Potter, but instead busies himself with buttering his bread. “The usual: a crime against humanity, and already preparing an encore for dinner.”

“Sounds about right,” Potter says. He starts to reach for his shoulder again but stops himself at the last minute, picking up his coffee cup instead. “How’s post-op looking?”

“Only the one bed: dog bite. He’ll be up in a day or so. No signs of any infection.” The bread is falling apart in his hands, so BJ sets it down and goes about buttering his eggs for something to do with his hands.

“I see, I see. Any sign of infection?

“Sir,” BJ says. “I know you don’t want me to, but I have to ask: is everything okay?” 

Potter’s expression snaps to offended, then furious, then mournful, sad, weary. “It’s the missus,” he says finally. “It’s been 37 years to the day since we matched. Being so far away for it today is hard.” 

“I was nearly in fits myself when my anniversary rolled around.” BJ keeps his voice low, careful. Colonel Potter might not be traditional Army but talking about marks isn’t exactly normal operating procedure regardless. 

But Potter is absently rubbing at his shoulder again, now looking out over the camp. “I can feel the distance this year. Maybe I’ll have Radar give Mother a call, just to—chat.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Don’t it?” Potter gathers his tray and shoots BJ a firm, canny look over his glasses. “Make sure you tell that match of yours how much you miss them when you get the chance. Makes the missing a mite easier, in some ways.”

BJ can do nothing but nod, knowing any other answer would be a lie.

::

 _Dearest BJ_ , Peg answers, _you're a dear to worry but I'm nothing but delighted for you. You'll have to tell me everything the first chance you get. I can’t wait._

_The only thing I can really say is: of course. Of course. It makes so much sense and I am happy you have this, now. Don't forget what we agreed! You'll come home and bring everyone along. We’ll figure it out as we always said we would: together. _

_With love to you and yours, Your Peg._

BJ feels something in him uncoil, unspool, unwind. 

::

“Sometimes,” Hawk explodes one night. He’s sprawled on his cot, staring into the bottom of a martini glass, and blinking as if he’s going to defeat fatigue single handedly. “Sometimes I think it’s all a dirty trick.”

BJ looks up from the letter he’s trying to write to Peg. “What’s a dirty trick this time?”

Hawk blows out a breath, then finishes his drink angrily. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m—I’m in a mood, I guess.”

“Full moon?” BJ says gently. Hawkeye’s been particularly on edge lately, jumping from outrageous idea to flamboyant scheme manically, chaotically, frantically. There’s something starting to boil in him, something dark and scared. 

“If the fleas are anything to go by,” he says, then sighs. “No, it’s not that. It’s—It’s—the thing is, I’ve been thinking that these marks are a rotten trick. I mean, the idea that we’ve got some sort of mark to lead us to our soulmate feels—it’s barbaric. Cruel! It’s cruel, is what it is.”

There’s a pain in BJ’s chest, a pang that goes right through him. “Oh? I thought you were waiting for tall, dark and handsome?”

Hawkeye lifts a hand and lets it fall. “That’s the dream, though, isn’t it? The ideal? That they’re out there and I’ll find them and we’ll live happily ever after? It doesn’t take into account _people_ , y’know? I mean—they could be old, or dead, or cruel, or already—which means it’s a lie. And what about the world? What about the rest of it? Just look at you!”

“What about me?” BJ manages, voice tight. 

“I mean, you’re matched; you’re happy, right? And then the US Army shows up and takes you from your little house and your match and your daughter and drags you halfway around the world so you can play doctor while in danger whether or not you want to be here. So what kind of system is this, that promises love with one hand and devastation with the other? I don’t—I don’t want it, not if it means I’ll lose them, or they’ll lose me, or—or—any of it. It’s _obscene_.”

Hawkeye’s panting by the time he finishes, hands clenching rhythmically against his knees. 

BJ sets aside his letter, his pen, his book. He slides to the edge of his cot and leans over his knees as he faces Hawkeye, _his_ Hawkeye, his match. He wonders if Hawk can feel his heart breaking all the way over there. 

“Hawkeye,” he says firmly. “That’s bullshit, and I think you know it. Love isn’t about _loss_ , it’s about having a partner, a friend, a match—it’s about _gaining_. Think about Carlye, and Radar, and Colonel Blake, and—think about your dad, Hawkeye. You don’t share a mark with him but you still love him, don’t you? Or is that the only prerequisite you have for loving someone, that they share a mark with you?”

Hawk starts to interrupt but BJ presses on, his momentum gathering as he tries to explain what he knows, what he wants, what he needs Hawkeye to know. 

“And the thing is, marks? They’re just there to remind you that love’s out there. You can match with someone and if you don’t _try_ —if you don’t connect, and talk, and laugh, and _try_ then what’s the goddamned point? You have to _try_.”

“You really believe in them, don’t you?” Hawkeye says finally, into the stillness. 

BJ thinks about it: he thinks about the mark on his side, the discovery that he had two matches. The possibility of having two matches, of having that much space inside him for all that feeling and all that wanting. He thinks about Peg and how much he loved her before having seen her mark. If she hadn’t had one, it wouldn’t have mattered: she was his. He thinks about Hawkeye and how much he loves him without knowing for sure if they’re a match. If they’re not, it won’t matter: he is BJ’s. 

BJ presses his fist into his hip and breathes out. “I think we love the people we need to love. And sometimes we get to know it’s big and important, and sometimes we get to know how to let go. But I think we have to choose it. We have to decide what we want. That’s what I think.”

Hawkeye hums, raspy and low. He lifts his empty glass to his lips. “If I’d known you were going to bring poetry into it, I’d’ve had another glass. You’re a damn romantic.”

::

There’s some dignitary passing through who’s likely to make trouble if the 4077 doesn’t display some amount of moral fiber, so the Colonel’s got everyone filling pews one rainy Sunday morning. BJ’s stifling yawns into his hand and discreetly elbowing Hawkeye every time he tips a little too far over into his stupor.

“Man was created in the likeness of our Lord,” the Father is saying. “And because our Lord is one of Love, he has granted us his gift of the marks of that love. Let all mankind understand the holy blessing of this acknowledgement of His love.”

Father Mulcahy pauses, waits for the muttered response, and BJ ends up pinching Hawkeye’s knee to get him to sit up so he can listen. His heart feels like it’s in his throat, and he’s choking by inches.

“It is written in the gospel of John: ‘Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.’ It is this lesson, that love is necessary and good, that we must claim that love, that we must treasure that love—it is this we must strive for in all things.”

There’s a shuffling from the back of the tent and Father Mulcahy smiles generously down the length of the crooked little aisle, expression serenely innocent in the way that tells BJ something vaguely scandalous is about to be unveiled. BJ realizes he’s holding his breath, waiting for—something. For absolution, or affirmation, or—or _something_. 

“There are those who say that these marks of love are problematic, that they go against the way of man because they encourage connection and communion between men, or between women, or other so-called mistakes. And to them, I say: how could man, made in the image of our Lord, in the image of a God who is love, ever be wrong in loving those the Lord has marked for them? To question the will of the Lord is sinful and blasphemous! We must remember our Lord’s gift to all mankind and celebrate love wherever we may find it. This is the will of our Lord. Let us pray.”

Beside him, Hawkeye has gone still, watchful eyes fixed on the chaplain. 

::

 _Darling Peg_ , he writes. 

_Don’t have any good news (yet). When you’ve got doctorin’ to do every time you turn around, it gets hard to figure out the right time to talk about things that aren’t fightin’ or fixin’. But, you know. I hope to have something to share, soon._

_I hope you and Erin are well—I miss you more and more every day. Hawkeye sends his love, too, although he’d claim I’m taking liberties with his intentions. Ha, ha. He threw a boot at me when I told him that—I hope the marks aren’t too bad._

_(I think you’ll like him—I can’t wait to introduce him to you someday (hopefully soon). The two of you will be unstoppable.)_

_As always, my love—Your BJ_

::

BJ finds Margaret and Hawkeye whispering together in the back of the O Club one evening after a long day in post-op. He orders a drink and wanders over, shoving a chair between Hawkeye and the wall with well-practiced ease. 

Hawkeye only moves when BJ digs a thumb into his ribs, expression going red as he scoots. “What’s the big idea? Can’t you see we’re plotting here?”

Margaret looks up from her whiskey, face a miracle of joyous rage. “We’re going to _get ‘em_. Get ‘em _good_. Good and—d-dirty.” She lifts her glass and toasts the barman dramatically. “Another!”

“Who are we getting?” BJ asks, trying not to be distracted by Hawkeye’s general presence pressed up beside him. 

“The Major and I,” Hawk starts in his mocking-Charles voice, “are going to have words with Chaaahles about his stance on the absolutely abhorrent practice of soulmaaahks.”

“He says they’re the en—env—he says they’re for the mindless masses. Me! Mindless!”

Hawkeye leans forward across the table, eyes fierce as he catches Margaret’s attention. “Don’t you listen to him, Margaret. He’s a pompous, mealy-mouthed _idiot_ and he doesn’t know any better.”

“What made him say that?” BJ asks. Under the table, Hawkey’s bouncing his foot and his knee keeps knocking into BJ’s thigh and the contact is enough to make BJ feel pulled taut. He _wants_ and he is impatient.

“Do—d’you think he’s a _blank_?” Margaret hisses. She looks vaguely shocked and surprised and _sad_ at the thought of it. 

“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t get to say things like that about marks. He doesn’t get to make anyone feel bad about their marks.” Hawkeye pauses, picks up his glass. “That includes you, Margaret.”

“Isn’t that why we’re here?” She laughs. “So we’re going to get ‘em. Toothpaste in his socks. And pudding in his pillow. Remember, Hawkeye?”

Hawkeye has a fond, soft look on his face. “We just planned it not 10 minutes ago, Major. I may be scrambled but I haven’t lost all my eggs.”

“No, no, no: not this pudding—the _other_ pudding. When you—when you were tormenting Frank and me?” She dissolves into giggles. “There was _pudding_ in my _pillow_. You and McIntyre—you were thick as thieves, weren’t you?”

Hawkeye goes still. “Oh, well. We were—it was just a joke, and I’m sorry we ever—”

Margaret waves her hand. “It doesn’t matter. Y’know I always thought you and he were—” Another gesture, this one more suggestive. “He wasn’t a match with his wife, but you know that. Offered to show me his if I showed him mine. Probably used that line on every nurse in a 10 mile radius.”

BJ tries not to flinch because it doesn’t—he _knows_ Hawk is his match, knows it like he knows the bones of the hand. But it doesn’t stop it from hurting, hearing about Trapper John’s clumsy ghost and the reminders of a hurt he can’t heal.

“I—I didn’t know that, actually,” Hawkeye says carefully, like he’s reciting from memory. “When did that happen?”

Margaret has the grace to look slightly ashamed, and she pulls herself upright in her chair. “I shouldn’t have said anything; I’m sorry, Pierce.”

Hawkeye shrugs and slouches further, somehow putting himself more firmly against BJ’s side. The warmth of it has BJ relaxing, leaning back. “It doesn’t matter. What were we talking about?”

“I think you were plotting against Winchester,” BJ offers. “Something about his socks.”

“That’s right!” Margaret crows. She lifts her glass. “We’re going to get ‘em. In the name of _love_. To love!”

“To love,” Hawk says.

“To love,” BJ echoes.

::

 _Dearest_ , Peg writes. 

_Erin is growing bigger every day. Sometimes I think it is so that she can strive out that much sooner on her own to find you and bring you home. We are sending all our love, or as much of it as we can fit in this envelope. We could probably fill an entire convoy with our love, but the postage would be problematic._

_I am so sorry to hear that you don’t have any good news (yet). I know you must be eager, and I wish I could do something for you. Please tell Hawkeye we send our love, too. Erin does not own any boots, but she did throw a handful of peas across the kitchen while I was drafting this letter so the sentiment is understood and returned, I think._

_To you, and yours, all my love: Your Peg_

::

“You’re the most big-hearted fool on two continents, Beej. Even I know that and I'm consistently voted most heartless by all the nurses. I can’t believe you’d do such a foolish, idiotic thing.”

Hawkeye’s struggling with his bootlaces when BJ gets back from picking up supplies at the 8063rd. When his hand slips and smacks into the corner of the still’s table, BJ reaches over without thinking. 

“Half right,” BJ mutters, thumb now caught against Hawkeye’s wrist where he can feel his racing pulse. "You doing okay?"

Hawkeye waves the hand not caught in BJ's. "I'm fine. You're the one with a complex here, remember?"

BJ waits, counts out heartbeats. He thinks about Kimpo and innuendo and hope. He thinks about marks and wanting and love. Hawkeye’s burning tension seems to leach out of him the longer they sit with knees knocking. “I’m sorry I worried you,” he says finally. 

He looks slightly mollified. “Wasn’t. Still say you have some kind of complex, though.”

BJ shrugs, folding his fingers around Hawkeye’s wrist almost absently. "Oh, I'd say what I'm feeling isn't all that complex. I'm a simple man."

Hawkeye combs a hand through his hair, pushing the tangle out of his eyes. “Oh, you are, are you?”

BJ leans in, waiting until Hawkeye quits fidgeting and looks at him. “Sure. Just a simple man with simple wants,” he says, and winks. Before Hawkeye can respond, BJ has stepped away and gathered everything he needs for a shower. 

When he leaves, Hawkeye’s still sprawled at the foot of his cot, wearing only the one boot.

::

The war goes on: the wounded come in droves and the blood in waves and the gin in buckets. Hawkeye paces the boundaries of the Swamp, the OR, the O Club like a caged animal, on edge and wary. BJ learns to bite his tongue and not say all the things caught in his throat. 

Things like: _You saved me and now I cannot live without you_. Or, _I wasn’t complete until I met you_. And, _Can you believe in this enough to try?_

Or, more simply, _I love you so much I may die of it._

It will keep, BJ thinks. It will keep a little while longer yet.

::

But then Hawkeye gets sent to battalion aid. But then BJ hears a doctor was killed. But then no one has any information on what’s going on and the facade of time comes to an end.

If Hawk is—if BJ has missed his chance—if he never gets to—if his mark has gone gray—

When Potter gives him 10 minutes to eat something between patients, BJ takes the opportunity to duck out behind the OR. There’s a howling panic in his head, and he presses his forehead to the metal siding and makes himself suck in breath after breath, holding the terror at bay. 

If Hawk _is_ —well. What can BJ do? He’ll go home to Mill Valley, and he and Peg and Erin will—they’ll figure it out. But first he’ll have to survive the rest of his enlistment, the rest of Korea on his own, without—and someone will have to tell Hawkeye’s father, and box up his things, and explain what happened. And BJ won’t even be able to mourn him properly; won’t be able to say, _He was mine_. Everyone will just assume Hawk was his friend, not his _match_ , not his other half.

Peg won’t ever get to meet him. Erin won’t ever get to meet him. And he wonders if it will matter, that they won’t get to understand why BJ loves him like he does, how important Hawkeye Pierce was to him, and to a MASH unit thousands of miles from the rest of the world. 

Finally he rubs his face in the crook of his elbow and stands, forcing his numb hands to fumble at the knot of his scrub pants enough that he can pull them away and examine the mark on his hip. 

There’s a second of churning fear before BJ sees the familiar black lines, untouched and intact. His knees go weak, and he ends up pressing his wet cheeks back to the corrugated walls to keep himself from falling. 

He has a little more time.

::

“The thing is,” BJ says. It is the middle of the day. Hawkeye is paging through one of his newspapers from Crabapple Cove and BJ is trying to keep himself still. “I haven’t met one of my matches yet.”

Across the tent, Hawkeye looks up. “What’s that?” 

“I have two marks,” BJ explains. “I’m missing a match.” When Hawkeye doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, BJ makes himself keep talking. “Hawk, I think it’s you.”

“Ha, ha,” he says, but the paper in his hands is trembling. “What kind of girl do you think I am to fall for a line like that?”

“Hawk, please—”

“Beej, stop. There isn’t any way—the Army would’ve known and they’d stop it. So it’s not—” His voice is raw and rough. 

“They don’t know,” BJ says, softly. “They guessed wrong, and I didn’t bother to correct them.”

There’s a moment of terrible silence, of a pause so long it makes BJ ache, before Hawkeye lifts his head. His expression is haunted, yearning, and he lifts a tired hand to cover his eyes. “BJ, please. You know that I—I—I _can’t_ —I couldn’t handle it if you’re not—you can’t joke about this, please. _Please_.”

BJ crosses the tent in two steps, leaning into Hawkeye’s space, letting the relief roll through him like a heatwave. “I’m not,” he says simply. “Hawk, I’m not. Look.”

He tugs down his waistband far enough that his mark shows above the belt loops: the outer rim, Peg’s plait; the inner circle, a knot that feels more and more familiar the longer he spends unraveling Hawkeye Pierce. 

Hawkeye’s glance skims BJ’s knees and jumps right over his hip to meet his eyes. “You shouldn’t be showing me—” he starts, but his attention has already dropped to BJ’s marks, heavy and hot. BJ locks his knees against it. 

“Is that—?” There’s wonder in Hawkeye’s voice. “It’s—it’s—”

BJ is watching Hawk’s every move but it still comes as something of a shock when Hawkeye’s fingers lift to stroke along his hip, tracing the lines. The _feeling_ of it—the electric shock of it—is enough to tell BJ the match is real, the connection real, and he has to bite back on a sound that’s not appropriate for two in the afternoon in an Army camp surrounded by soldiers and nurses and busybodies. 

“I told you,” BJ half-laughs, half-sighs, fighting the urge to press into Hawkeye’s touch. “I told you we were a match. You damn fool.”

Hawkeye exhales, fingers stilling on BJ’s skin. “I _wanted_ it to be you,” he says finally, honesty and regret tangled together. “I wanted it so badly but you never said—you never—”

BJ catches Hawkeye’s hand before it can retreat, holds it firm against his side, lets himself revel in the euphoria and joy coursing through him. “Me, too, Hawk. I wanted it to be you so much, but I didn’t know how—I wasn’t sure if you even wanted a match.”

“Wanted a match?” Hawkeye chuckles, vaguely, sounding wrung out. “I didn’t want any match who wasn’t you, you tall, blond menace. You should have _said something_.”

“And what should I have said? ‘Oh, excuse me, but I was wondering if perhaps you’d like to take off your pants and let me get a good look?’”

“Beej. All you ever had to do was ask and I would have—I’d’ve—”

“Hawk. How many times does a guy have to bring up marks before you wonder what the big deal is?” BJ replies, laughing as he lets himself fall onto the cot alongside Hawkeye. “I tried, you dummy, but it seems like you needed a hands-on demonstration.”

Hawkeye cackles, head thrown back to expose the line of his throat.

And BJ knows what comes next. 


End file.
